


How Could He (Do This To Me)

by LostandLonelyBirds (RUNNFROMTHEAK)



Series: Death is But An Illusion [3]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BAMF Dick Grayson, Barely hinted squint and you miss it JayDick, Batman: Reborn, Bruce Wayne is a Bad Parent, Bruce Wayne is a Dick, Dick Grayson Has Issues, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Dick Grayson has abandonment issues, Dick Grayson is Batman, Dick Grayson was Renegade, Did not mean for that to worm its way into the story but fuck me I guess, Featuring Dick Grayson's inability to consistently blame Bruce for things, Gen, Hurt, Hurt Dick Grayson, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jason's Gay Crush, Just the worst, Not the sexual kind oops, Post Batman Reborn, Self-Esteem Issues, Slade Wilson is an ass, and instead hates himself, but at least he appreciated Dick Grayson, meta jokes, or was Batman since Bruce fired him again
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2020-07-30 18:04:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20101399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RUNNFROMTHEAK/pseuds/LostandLonelyBirds
Summary: He’d hated (hates) Bruce for leaving him, for abandoning them all,for never caring, never showing emotion, never being the caretaker Dick had needed, never being the father Dick had needed–When he’d felt like he was falling, dying, suffocating, wishing more and more every day that he’d fallen with his parents.When the only human contact he’d get was Alfred’s stoicism.When he’d felt cold and alone and wished for something Bruce had never been able to give.He’d thought discovering Bruce’s secret would bring them closer, shared vows of justice to absent (dead) parents bridging the empty gap, but all it did was cement the distance between them.He was Bruce’s ward (not son),His sidekick (not partner),His mistake.Because Bruce was never ready to be Dick’s father, Dick just deluded himself into thinking he meant more to Bruce than he did.





	1. I wish there was another way out

**Author's Note:**

> This one has been a long time coming! It took lots of work and took a lot longer than I thought it would but I feel like it's pretty good????? I will admit it's my favorite piece I've written so far and I had the amazing beta Gayperry to fix all my dumb little mistakes and help me feel out different thoughts, plotlines, and styles. Thank you all so much for the kudos, comments, and support! I hope you guys enjoy!

The jealousy festered for months – a constant, tense, intruding presence looming over Wayne Manor and her inhabitants. The unspoken elephant, seen by everyone but never spoken about.

Bruce was different, he had changed, and Dick felt like an outsider in his own family.

Soft smiles in the light of dawn turned to hard eyes, bright blue overshadowed by the cowl they shared, darkened by the duty they shared.

A hand clasped on his shoulder, the whispered ‘_good job_’ after a particularly rough mission turned to pointed jabs, sometimes with a hand, sometimes with words, ripping Dick’s flaws open for the world to see.

Alfred said it was nonsense, that Bruce loved him, but Dick knew Bruce better than he knew himself, and the man couldn’t even meet his eyes.

It hurt.

And slowly, he changed too.

He’d _hated (<strike>hates</strike>) _Bruce for leaving him, for abandoning them all,

for never caring, never showing emotion, never being the caretaker Dick had needed, never being the _father _Dick had needed–

_When he’d felt like he was falling, dying, suffocating, wishing more and more every day that he’d fallen with his parents._

_When the only human contact he’d get was Alfred’s stoicism._

_When he’d felt cold and alone and wished for something Bruce had never been able to give._

_He’d thought discovering Bruce’s secret would bring them closer, shared vows of justice to absent (<strike>dead</strike>) parents bridging the empty gap, but all it did was cement the distance between them._

_He was Bruce’s ward (<strike>not son</strike>),_

_His sidekick (<strike>not partner</strike>),_

_His mistake._

_Because Bruce was never ready to be Dick’s father, Dick just deluded himself into thinking he meant more to Bruce than he did._

\- But he had suppressed it, played his role, had been the _Dick Grayson _everyone expected.

He had tried to bridge the chasm between him and Bruce, confusion and bitterness and relief warring in his head, had forced himself to return the glares with smiles, to let Bruce work with Damian, to act like Tim’s sole deference to Bruce didn’t hurt.

Dick had never truly looked into Bruce’s eyes- not deeply, not honestly- because he was a performer, an _actor, _by nature. Dick had always been good at lying. Even to himself. _Especially _to himself. He’d always been an emotional creature, a _reactionary _creature, and once he **stopped **lying to himself, his attempts to bridge the gap growing between them disappeared.

Now he looked into Bruce’s eyes and saw that same hatred reflected in them, jealousy and anger and disappointment clouding his mentor’s cobalt eyes.

Now he saw the bitterness and resentment fueling his (<strike>father</strike>? <strike>Mentor</strike>? <strike>Friend</strike>?) ex-Partner’s every interaction with him.

Now he saw the ham-fisted attempts to keep him and Dami separate, keeping Dick close (_to be used_) but not too close (_to be loved_).

‘_I only did what I had to,_’ he thinks, angry and resentful and tired all at once. ‘_I just wanted to save your legacy, <strike>to make you proud</strike>._’

He felt bitter too, because none of this would’ve happened if Bruce would’ve been a proper father in the first place (_<strike>to him</strike>, to Damian)_.

All he’d done, all he’d _tried _–

_so hard, not sleeping, not eating, because the ghost of Bruce looming over his shoulder terrified him more than the living Bruce had, because he didn’t want to fail the man who’d raised him, driving himself to the ground to fill the shoes he’d never wanted, the cowl he’d never asked for_.

-to do was hold the family and the company and the _whole entire fucking city_ together. He’d worn all of Bruce’s hats, taking over every role with enthusiasm thinking that _Bruce would be proud of him_, that he was doing a good job.

He’d given up his _name _and _city _and _team _and _independence_, abandoning his friends and life for his dead mentor.

He’d been the Batman, the CEO, the father, the playboy.

_(And he’d thought he’d done okay, all things considered. He’d kept Gotham safe, strengthened Batman’s relationship with the GCPD, slashed crime rates, helped Damian adjust, brought Jason back from the dark side (mostly), and kept the company afloat. Wasn’t that enough? Why was he never enough?)_

It wasn’t fair that Bruce came back, effortlessly taking over the company and bringing Tim back into the fold-

_(something Dick had been trying to do for **months**, thousands of texts and voicemails and calls being ignored and deleted like they were nothing)_

-and _resented _him for what he’d done to keep everything together.

It wasn’t fair that Dick was thrown aside, ripped from the costume he’d **_paid _**for in his blood and sweat and tears, ripped from the partnership he’d carefully cultivated from the ashes of Bruce’s disappearance.

It wasn’t fair that all the all-nighter’s, panic attacks, nightmares, tears, and blood were thrown aside because he’d gotten too close, cared too much, about the son Bruce had never given a shit about.

Never mind that he’d worked his ass off to build that connection.

Never mind that he’d been the only member of the family to put any effort into seeing Damian for the child he was, rather than the assassin he had been.

Never mind that it took **months **of partnership for Damian to trust him, confide in him, let him in,

Never mind that he built Damian up, trained him, taught him, helped him with homework and emotions and nightmares and fears-

_(Earned his respect, had his back in the darkest nights and grimiest alleys, fought his mother off for him, nearly **killed** for him)_

-Because Bruce Wayne took the products of Dick’s suffering and love and pain (_Damian, Gotham, Wayne Enterprises_) without so much as a _thank you _or _good job_.

That’s all Bruce had ever seen him as: a pawn to be played with, manipulated, _used_, until he fulfilled the mission, lost his value.

He had let Dick keep the Batman suit while he adjusted, let him think he and Dami would keep their partnership, but Bruce tore both those away in one blow.

_“His reliance on you isn’t healthy, he needs to grow beyond you.”_

_Delivered in that same, cold voice he used when they found a victim on the street, or when one of them was injured. He wasn’t even facing Dick, acting as if this was just another mission debrief, or their twisted form of family time. _

_As if he wasn’t tearing apart Dick’s whole world, destroying the one thing that helped him survive these last few months when Jason tried to kill him (had killed him, parts of him), and Tim abandoned Dick to search for **him**._

_As if he wasn’t breaking Dick’s heart, suffocating him with pain and darkness and that hollowness that came with loneliness._

_And Dick tried to fight, he did. He’d screamed and yelled, throwing words with punches in their form of communication – pain (<strike>the only way Bruce could feel anything, heartless bastard</strike>_<strike>)</strike>.

_He tried to explain that what Bruce was asking of him would break him, that he couldn’t do it._

_He begged Bruce to reconsider, to not make him do this, to not hurt him like this, to not make him hurt Damian like this (who trusted Dick, after so long, relied on him)._

_But his protests died when they made eye contact, surrounded by the ruin of their fight, blood and bruises- the only thing Bruce seemed willing to share._

_He looked into Bruce’s cold azure eyes, as icy as the day he’d fired him from Robin, as emotionless as the day he’d forced him to dig his own grave*, and he knew that nothing he could say would change his ex-mentor’s mind._

_Bruce didn’t give him a choice, and Dick was too afraid to ask if he’d given Damian a choice -_

_(after all, he’d wanted to train with his father his entire life, fought his mother for years and years just to meet the original Dark Knight, what was Dick in comparison? <strike>A pale mockery</strike>? <strike>A hollow replica</strike>?)._

Kicked out of the house he’d grown up in, out of the _city _he’d protected and defended and damn near _died _for when Bruce was lost in time.

All he could think of was Bruce’s eyes –

(_when he’d finally faced Dick’s yelling, his pain and protests and heartbreak)_

-hollow, empty, lifeless.

Like Dick’s emotions were nothing.

Like _he _was nothing.

And he felt _rage_-

_“I’m so angry,” he’d whispered, tears trailing down his cheeks as Donna held him tight to her chest (<strike>as though her arms alone could hold together the broken shell of a man that killed the Joker</strike>)._

_“Why am I still so** angry**?_”

-blinding, _stupid_ rage that made his blood boil and heart wither in equal measure.

Rage that led to his most notable _bad _decisions –

_A volatile, reckless cocktail of sex, violence, and drugs_.

_Nights he can’t remember, nights he wished he couldn’t remember, _

_like the Joker’s smiling corpse, _

_like Blockbuster’s smoking corpse…_

\- that he almost always ended up regretting.

Rage that reared its ugly head every time Damian smiled up at Bruce, or told a joke –

_Which Bruce ignored, not understanding how big it was that Dami was adjusting, **adapting**, not appreciating the effort and vulnerability that came with Dami’s smiles and small displays of emotion, the **trust**…_

-to an undeserving audience.

Rage that rushed to his head, blurring his vision, as Jason gave B a nod of respect, putting the guns aside to team up with quips and fist bumps –

_Which Bruce treated as if it was nothing, like Jason reaching out, **moving on**, wasn’t huge. It hurt Dick, left him an ugly, jealous, angry mess. He’d begged Jason for compromises, for anything, offered him **everything**, only to be rejected time and time and time again, taking bullets to his bodysuit for his efforts…_

\- and a reluctant team-mate, silent and brooding, like the gargoyles **he** liked to perch on.

Dick knew he was a mess, knew he was shaking to the point where he shouldn’t be walking, let alone performing parkour on the rooftops in the rain. Especially not in his state, with no gear or lines or hooks if he fell (_<strike>he doesn’t think he’d mind if he fell</strike>_).

He was an emotional wreck, all too attached, too close (_<strike>to Dami</strike>, <strike>to Bruce</strike>, <strike>to everyone</strike>_) ...

And maybe _that’s _on him,

For letting him get his heart involved,

For forcing his family hang-ups on a bunch of people only _vaguely_ connected through Bruce Wayne,

For forcing his affection on others as though it was reciprocated, as though they cared the way he did.

He’d always loved recklessly, with his whole being, wearing his heart on his sleeve for all to see.

He’d loved like an acrobat – fearlessly, openly, without hesitation.

And maybe he should’ve _looked _before he _loved_,

Maybe he should’ve exercised more professionalism, more distance.

Maybe he shouldn’t have cared (_deeply, endlessly, about everyone, everything_).

Maybe if he’d done what Bruce had wanted, he wouldn’t be here, flipping off rooftops high on the Gotham skyline at damn close to 4am in the pouring rain…

But he _had_, and he _did_, and now he had to reap the consequences of his actions.

Consequences, he thinks, like the blade that just about decapitated him.

It narrowly misses the top of his head and Dick’s sure if he had a mirror, he’d be sporting an unflattering new haircut. Dick spins, using the momentum to direct his kick to the assailant’s head as orange fills his vision. Slade Wilson is smirking as he dodges Dick’s roundhouse, looking oddly pleased.

“I see you’re still as reactive as ever, Blue Bird.” Slade says, striking outwards at Dick again.

Dick handsprings out of the sword’s path, wincing as he puts pressure on his right wrist. He’d injured it on patrol not two days earlier, as Batman. He lands in a crouch, guard slightly dropped to compensate for the injury he just had to aggravate…

‘_Stupid_,’ he berates himself. ‘_Rookie mistake_.’

Dick knows better than to think that his opponent didn’t catalogue the injury to take advantage of as soon as possible.

From the way the mercenary’s eyes drift from Dick’s unmasked face to his hands, he was right not to hope.

“What the _hell _are you doing here Slade? Were you paid to fail to kill me _again_?”

Dick snaps, because, _really_, there’s been so many attempts to kidnap or kill him in the past year alone he could almost reclaim his childhood title of “Boy Hostage”, and Deathstroke was the perfect shitty conclusion to an already fucked up week (<strike>month</strike>, <strike>year</strike>).

“What makes you think I’m here to kill anyone, ex-Apprentice of mine?”

Slade says, both swords extended, eyes gleaming.

He moves closer to Dick, advancing on him like a wolf to a sheep and forcing the acrobat to retreat further. He’s still wounded from his fight with Bruce, skin a patchwork of blues and purples beneath his clothes, and he’s wary of the wall behind him, but Slade’s swords block any exit over the rooftop’s ledges.

“Maybe I’m just here to catch up with some old _friends_.”

Slade gives an experimental swing of his blade, slow (for him) and precise. Dick slides under it and manages a kick to Slade’s chest, shoving the man back a few precious feet and giving Dick some much needed room to work.

He snorts.

“I _doubt _that you came here with any good intentions.”

Slade’s smile is predatory, _dangerous_.

“I never said they were good, Grayson. Who am I? Batman?”

Dick suppresses the urge to wince, pushing the resentment down for the moment.

If Deathstroke was here for him he couldn’t afford to lose focus.

It could mean his death.

“I’m here for you, Blue bird. I’ve been hearing some interesting things.”

Slade begins, stance tense like a compressed spring, ready to launch at a moment’s notice.

Dick wonders if this is a test from Bruce.

Dick gives a saccharin-sweet smile, innocently bating his eyelashes to buy time and distract Deathstroke while he arms himself.

“I _am _pretty interesting. Just look at this face.”

His fingers grope his back for his utility belt, carefully concealed under his leather jacket…

“The underground is saying Nightwing’s losing his touch, his _flare_.”

Slade advances slightly, stopping just out of Dick’s reach, and Dick’s fingers only feel the scarred expanse of his back.

It dawns on him slowly, panic and horror filling him as he realizes he’d left it in the Batcave after he’d stormed away from Bruce.

Dick wants to groan at his own stupidity, the Bat mantra of ‘_Always be prepared_’ looping through his mind in an endless cycle. But his emotions clouded his judgement (_like Bruce always said they did, like Jason and Roy and Damian always yelled at him for_) and he ran right into an assassin while in civvies and unarmed.

No wonder Bruce fired him (again).

“There wouldn’t be any truth to that, would there?”

Dick’s smile is mocking, and he steps closer to the man (because he’s _stupid_ and if he’s gonna die, he’s gonna do it _right_).

“Why don’t you tell me?”

And his fist connects with Slade’s nose, hard enough to draw blood with a loud _crack_

Slade’s responding bloody grin is as vicious as he is, and Dick feels too satisfied to regret it.

If only all his problems were punch-able….

“Let’s see if you’ve improved since we last fought, Grayson.”

With a quick snap, Slade’s nose is back in place and he throws himself at Dick.

It becomes obvious that Slade is toying with him several minutes into the fight, ignoring several openings to take him down via stabbing.

He’s drawing the fight out, throwing blows and practically telegraphing his moves as Dick twists and twirls and flips out of the way, like a dance routine only the two of them knew.

Like before, when he’d been in between Robin and Nightwing, confused and uncertain.

Like when he’d been Renegade.

After years of fighting for and against Slade (<strike>never with, never as equals, Slade was just the murder-happy version of Bruce)</strike>, there were certain tells in his style that Dick had learned to pick up on. This didn’t give him any advantage, because Slade knew his tells too, but it felt good, felt _normal_.

It was sad that in his life, fighting an enhanced mercenary obsessed with training you to take over his mantle was normal.

At least this normal wasn’t trying to kill him (for now).

Dick sees an opening as Slade kicks out, swords out of reach, and manages to sweep the mercenary’s feet from under him.

Dick straddles Slade’s waist, using his body weight to pin him to the ground, breathing heavily.

He narrows his eyes at Slade, cold as ice.

“I’m going to ask you again, why are you _really _here? What are you planning?”

There’s no warning as Slade bucks his hips, and Dick’s eyes widen comically as their positions are reversed and it’s Slade looking down at him.

“I already told you why I’m here kid. I’m here for you, and to show you something.”

“Then why attack me at all?”

“Had to make sure you weren’t too rusty.”

Slade stands up, offering Dick a hand to help him up.

Dick takes it, curiosity overtaking his instinctive mistrust over Deathstroke’s intentions.

“Show me what?”

“You’ll see,” Slade replies cryptically, walking towards the roof’s ledge before looking back at Dick with a smirk.

“If you can keep up.”

Never one to turn down a challenge, Dick races after Slade Wilson’s fading form with ease.

He lets himself indulge in a few showy (and completely unnecessary) flips as he runs across the skyline.

Most of Gotham is asleep, but he wonders what they’d think if they looked up to see Richard Grayson flipping on rooftops and chasing after Deathstroke the Terminator.

Bruce would be pissed, and the _Gotham Gazette_ would try and twist it into some sordid gossip.

‘_Richard Grayson’s Rooftop Rendezvous with World’s Deadliest Mercenary: Romance or Rebellion?’_

That makes him laugh a little as he nears where Deathstroke stopped, because it would drive Bruce _insane _to have the entirety of Gotham thinking his eldest son was sleeping with a killer.

“What am I looking at?”

Dick asks, surveying his surroundings. It’s a rooftop down in the Narrows, near Jason’s typical patrol route. Nothing particularly special about it at first glance (or second and third).

“There.”

Slade points off into the distance, to where it looked like a small gang of crooks were holding hostages in a bank.

Dick surges forward (he’s not sure what he’s going to do without his suit, but he can’t do _nothing_) only for Slade to stop him with a pointed look and an outstretched arm.

Something in his gut tells him to keep watching, so he shoves aside Slade’s arm with a huff and complies.

He doesn’t have to wait long for what Slade wanted him to see.

Jason walks into the bank through the front door, decked out in his Red Hood gear with his guns unholstered. He quickly draws the attention of the would-be bank robbers, who seem to grow nervous at the Red Hood’s appearance.

Dick’s too far away to read lips, but he imagines the bank are threatening the hostages, which makes him question _why _Jason walked through the front door instead of taking them out with stealth the way they’d been trained to.

But, as soon as he asks himself that, he sees why.

Red Robin, Robin, and Black Bat appear out of seemingly thin-air and knock each of the crooks unconscious without any struggle. After Red Hood shoots the last wannabe robber point-blank with a rubber bullet, he fist bumps Black Bat and Red Robin before helping the hostages free of their binds.

Dick stares in disbelief, jaw slightly agape, heart pounding.

That, that was _all _he’d wanted, all he’d been _trying _to get-

“Come on kid, they’re leaving.”

He lets Slade guide him as they quietly vault from roof to roof, stopping on a billboard behind where the Bats had gathered.

“That was _sick_!”

Dick hears Stephanie exclaim, watching as she high-fives Cassandra.

Cassandra nods, and Jason takes his helmet off to smirk at them.

“Y’know if I knew team-ups were going to be fun, I would’ve agreed months ago.”

Dick’s heart falls, stuttering quietly in his chest. Months ago, when Bruce came back, months ago when Bruce took over…

Not _Dick_.

Never _Dick._

“Todd you were…” Damian pauses, searching for the right word. “…adequate.”

It’s such a _small _thing to get upset over, but Dick remembers when Dami first came to Gotham, refusing to acknowledge anyone’s merit. His sharp tongue and barbed insults were used to get under the family’s skin, and he stubbornly insisted he was _above _the mere _adopted _Wayne sons.

“Here that Jay? Demon Spawn practically complimented you!”

It’s affectionate, caring.

Something he’d been trying to pry out of Tim since Bruce died and Dick took over.

He clenches his jaw, aware of Slade’s eyes tracing his face, watching for reactions.

Dick watches Damian’s cheeks flush pink.

“I did no such thing Drake!”

Stephanie giggles, leaning heavily on Cassandra.

“Just admit it Dami. You think we’re all _amazing_.”

“Tt. I spoke of Todd, not you Fatgirl.”

Steph’s affronted gasp is all for show, Jason and Tim laughing loudly at it.

His (not _family _but _something_) was patrolling together, happily.

Without harming or threatening each other.

Without having to be forced.

Without _him_.

“Code names in the field.”

He hears Bruce before he sees him.

Fond, soft.

The exact _opposite_ of how it’d been when he forced Dick out of the cave hours earlier.

Dick clenches his fists, fingernails cutting painful bloody crescents into his palm.

He feels Slade’s hand grip his shoulder, and the weight helps ground him, calm him.

“Why did you bring me here?” Dick asks, hating how weak he sounds, how the hurt bleeds into his voice.

Because they were together, _happy_, without him.

All he’d wanted…

The _only _thing he’d wanted…

Why did Slade think he needed to see that his family was _better_ and _happier_ without his inadequacies weighing them down?

“I didn’t bring you here to watch you pity yourself Grayson. I brought you here to extend an offer to train you, again.”

Of course.

How had he not seen this pitch coming?

But maybe if he trained, he’d be better.

Maybe if he trained, he’d be good enough.

Hadn’t Batman learned from assassins all over the world? Was this any different?

“I won’t kill,” he says, because he won’t. He can’t. Not again.

Slade’s hand tightens on his shoulder, smirk in place.

“I know you won’t. That’s not who you are.”

Dick doesn’t say anything in response, and Slade’s eyes gleam like he’s already won.


	2. no one cares less than me, dead wrong i guess you'll be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He thinks of Bruce’s dismissal of him, of his friends’ anger at him, of his family’s exclusion of him.
> 
> He knew his place; he’d learned his value.  
This was what he needed (wanted) to be someone better, someone who didn’t fuck up and fail his family time and time again.
> 
> If Bruce learned from the League of Assassins, Dick can learn from the man capable of taking the League down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this love-child of mine has been a month in the making, betaed by the amazing Gayperry once again! I've been getting so much love nad support with all of my stuff, so this is for everyone who commented, kudoed (I think that's a term), and even just looked at my stories. I love writing, and I'm so happy that this is something people genuinely connect with and enjoy, even if it is sad at times. This one is less sad and I tried out some new stuff, so I hope you guys love it!
> 
> Also, somehow Slade became one of favorite characters to write so you bet your sweet ass he's going to be popping up again later (I have no self control, this piece was at 2000 and then it hit 3000 and I had to write another chapter)
> 
> ….BUT I will say that for maximum reading experience after the words "Now..." in italics, you're going to want to play War Child by Hollywood Undead on loop. Trust me, the final scene was literally written around that song's chorus. It's my favorite song so... 
> 
> Thank all you beautiful people for reading! If anyone has any Dick Grayson or Batfam fic requests, wants to talk, or wants to ask about any of my stories my tumblr is lostandlonelybirds.
> 
> Also, there is an amazing inspired fic for How Could You? called He's Changed and it's by RichardGraysonPercyJackson. It's an amazing piece that I absolutely adore so please go check it out, you won't regret it!

_Twenty-Four Hours Later…_

“I’m not going easy on you kid. I’m not the _League_, I’m not _Superman_, and I’m sure as hell not _Batman_.”

Dick doesn’t meet Slade’s gaze, still raw from what he’d seen.

He doesn’t give Slade the reaction the mercenary had been hoping for either, suppressing the flinch at the last name to be listed.

It was a test, to see if his mind could change with a mere name drop of people who would disapprove of what he was doing.

There’s a pause, and Dick knows he’s passed when Slade’s voice continues.

“I won’t tolerate disrespect or disobedience. You will address me as sir within this manor and out in the field…”

Normally Dick would put up a token protest at that, but what was the point? He wasn’t Robin, and this wasn’t Jump City. Deathstroke may have come to him, but he’d left with the man willingly (_<strike>desperately</strike>_) with his eyes wide open.

“…Training begins at six am sharp in the gym, starting with warmups. You will get a half-hour to warm up before we spar. We fight until I say stop, or until you can defeat me without your belt and weapons.”

Dick looks up to meet Slade’s eye, gleaming with something. Malice? Bloodlust?

He drops his head back down, uncaring of the older man’s gaze.

_‘You asked for this_,’ he reminds himself firmly. ‘_He gave you a choice and you said yes_.’

“…Afterwards we will begin weapons training. You will master every weapon in this place, including every gun. You will perfect your accuracy, regardless of any bruises you receive in training. I don’t give a shit if you’re blacking out, I expect your aim to be as dead on as if you were in peak condition.”

He snorts, that at least was something he was used to.

Years under the Batman’s mentorship hardened his endurance and stamina. Unless he was dead, he was expected to accomplish _any _mission without fail.

Failure wasn’t an option,

Not for the so-called _Golden Boy_.

“I don’t expect you to kill, but I will be taking you on non-lethal missions to test you. Your morals don’t matter here, not with me. Remember, you wanted this, nobody forced you into this. Do you understand Apprentice?”

He thinks of Bruce’s dismissal of him, of his friends’ anger at him, of his family’s exclusion of him.

He knew his place; he’d learned his value.

_This _was what he needed (_<strike>wanted</strike>_<strike>)</strike> to be someone better, someone who didn’t _fuck up _and fail his family time and time again.

If Bruce learned from the League of Assassins, Dick can learn from the man capable of taking the League down.

Dick looks at Slade, eyes cold and gaze steely.

“I understand, _sir_.”

**_He must be better_.**

*****

_One Week Later…_

“Again, Apprentice.”

He grits his teeth, pain blooming and spreading from the bruises forming on his skin.

He throws a punch at Slade - one easily caught by the older man – and sees white as his arm is twisted behind his back.

“Fuck.”

His body is aching, screaming.

They’ve been at it for hours, each unwilling to submit.

He wants to give up, to submit.

But he closes his eyes and sees Damian’s sneer at the _circus _freak his father had adopted, sees Bruce’s face, disappointment clouding his expression, and forces himself to get up.

“Focus, Grayson.”

Dick throws his head back, slamming into Slade with all the force his tired form can muster.

Slade’s grip weakens, and he manages to cartwheel away with his good arm.

He tries to attack from the air, but Slade anticipates it and forces him to the ground again.

“Don’t rely on your acrobatics. They’re useful, but you need to be able to fight without them. The air may be your element, but you need to be able to stand your ground. Be unpredictable.”

Dick launches forward, rolling between the mercenary’s legs and unsheathing one of Slade’s swords.

Slade raises an eyebrow at him, to which he shrugs.

“You said to be unpredictable.”

“I also said to call me sir.”

Dick rolls his eyes.

“Yes, _sir_.”

Slade lets loose a grin, feral as the one he’d given in the rain.

“You have my sword, let’s see what you can do with it.”

Dick barely has enough time to deflect the blow and watches his own blade clatter to the ground. He sighs, resigning himself to another hour spent bandaging cuts.

**_He must be better_**.

*

_One Month Later…_

“You know the vital areas, Apprentice, _hit them._”

Dick slams the magazine into the gun, firing six shots off in quick succession.

One to the head, one to the heart, one to the femoral artery, one to the center of mass, and one to each lung.

The scarily authentic robot bleeds, screams dying as each bullet hits its mark with perfect precision.

He thinks of the Joker as the fake-blood leaks towards him, of the blood Jason’s corpse had been coated in.

Jason’s snarling face pops into his head, as angry as he’d been when his successor had thrown himself off the train.

Dick drops the still smoking gun, wondering what Jason would think of his new training.

Slade’s hand grasps his shoulder, giving it a squeeze with a proud smile.

It makes him think of a heavier hand, coated in black, with a dark cowl and a proud gaze.

“Good job, Apprentice.”

He knows Slade isn’t Bruce, because Bruce would never vocalize his praise.

** _He’s going to be better._ **

*

_Three Months Later…_

He’s bleeding heavily from his shoulder and he can still _feel _the bullet lodged there.

Damian’s face comes to mind, when he’d watched Dick fall from a bullet meant for the ex-assassin.

The way his expression softened, fear overtaking his face.

He’d looked every bit the ten-year-old he’d been.

He pauses to curse under his breath, glancing behind him to see if he’s still being followed.

“_Language, Apprentice.”_

Dick tries to hide his surprise as the comm sounds inside his ear, knowing Slade would plan an insane training regime involving surprise attacks at odd times, fighting in the dark, and being woken up with a knife to his throat. Again.

He’d rather avoid that.

“Yes sir.”

“_Have you secured the package?”_

“I’ve secured the package sir, but I was spotted by a shift change we didn’t account for. One of Luthor’s men managed to tag my shoulder.”

Slade is silent for a moment and Dick knows he’s not going to like what awaits him at Slade’s mansion.

“_Are you alright?”_

Dick’s momentarily thrown for a loop, expecting to be berated for his mistake.

But maybe Slade is different from Bruce, like he’d said (_like Dick had thought, frequently, when training critique came with compliments on his form, on his aim, rather than pointed criticism designed to tear him down_).

“I’m fine sir. I can complete the mission without assistance.”

Slade hums his approval, and Dick moves towards the vent he knows leads to the roof.

“_And Grayson? Be prepared for a repeat of strategic training after Wintergreen patches up your shoulder. I don’t care if we didn’t know about the guard change, I expect you to be able to adapt and change plans accordingly.”_

Dick snorts,

_There it is. _

“Yes sir.”

The comm cuts off and Dick enters the vent, wary of the noise he’s making.

**_He’s getting better_**.

*

_Five Months Later…_

“I want you to hack into my computer.”

The statement seems out of nowhere but knowing Slade it’s probably something he’s been thinking about for a few days.

Dick blinks, because one of the _many _rules Slade had given him was not touching his computer.

“What?”

Slade sends him a look, and he mutters a ‘_sorry sir_’ he knows Slade’s enhanced hearing can pick up on.

Slade rolls his eyes and repeats himself.

“I want you to hack into my computer. You’ve excelled in the field, mastered every weapon I’ve tasked you with, and managed to _almost _take me down in sparring. I doubt your hacking skills have improved much since your stint with the Titans, not with Drake, Wayne, and Gordon doing it for you.”

Dick wants to argue, but he knows Slade is right.

He’d learned all there was to learn from Batman in terms of hacking, and after Barbara became Oracle and Tim became Robin there wasn’t a need for him to hack.

Not when he was surrounded by computer geniuses who could _clearly _do it better.

But, part of him preens at Slade’s praise. That same part of him perks up at the thought of a challenge, a chance to impress his mentor.

He thinks of Tim’s grin when he’d hacked the Bat-computer, the stab of jealousy that flooded him when his second successor surpassed him in something that he’d been the best at before.

He wants to be the best again, to show his value to the family that thought him lesser.

To the mentor who’d fired him, ripped his costume from him, expelled him from his home…

_Again_.

“Can I start now?”

Slade’s answering nod fills him with an exhilaration he hasn’t felt since before Bruce had died, before he’d disappointed his friends and family in every way possible.

** _He would be better than his successors in every way. _ **

* 

_Seven months Later…_

“That the best you got Boy Wonder?”

He grunts, narrowly sidestepping Slade’s blade and throwing a kick to Slade’s head.

The bastard laughs as he ducks under it, knocking Dick to the ground and putting the sword to his chest.

“Come on Apprentice, back where you started? Why should I bother training you if you _don’t learn_?”

But Dick _had _learned, he’d learned a great deal.

He’d refined his technique, honing it to a lethal degree.

He’d improved his mastery over weapons, each acting as an extension of himself.

He’d successively hacked Slade’s computer along with the Batcomputer, the Justice League communicators, and LexCorp’s security cameras.

He also knew his weaknesses, and Slade’s.

Slade loved to talk, and Dick couldn’t meet Deathstroke’s brute strength head on.

But he could win, if he played it right.

“Why should your family accept you if you can’t even beat me?”

Dick snarls, bare hands wrapping around the blade as Slade presses it down, cutting through the thin cotton of his training clothes.

His hands sting, blood leaking from his fingers to splatter on his chest.

“Why should you train me if you can’t even hold onto your own weapon?”

His leg surges up, kicking the sword’s hilt hard enough for it to leave its master’s hand.

Deathstroke makes a grab for it, but Dick beats him to it.

His body twists, other leg curving and slamming into Slade’s kneecaps with as much force as he can muster.

The sword falls in his hand and without missing a beat he hurls it at the target dummy on the opposite side of the gym.

It hits dead center.

“I’m disarmed, but you’re still at a disadvantage Grayson.”

Dick Grayson is, at heart, a performer.

He knows this, embraces it, and fights accordingly.

…But perhaps ripping his shirt off was a _bit _dramatic.

“Let’s dance _sir_.”

He doesn’t think of the bats as Slade launches himself towards him.

He doesn’t think of Bruce’s disapproval,

He doesn’t think of Jason’s temper,

He doesn’t think of Tim’s abandonment,

He doesn’t think of Damian’s trust.

He lets himself fall into instinct, and for the first time in a long time he doesn’t think or feel, he just _acts_.

Slade doesn’t hold back, and neither does he.

It’s ruthless and dirty fighting, Dick’s using every skill he’s every learned to keep up with Slade.

He’s twisting and spinning around him, pulling out of the man’s reach before the mercenary has a chance to knock him to the ground.

Slade’s a hard son of a bitch to take down, but Dick knows he can.

He _has _to.

_But,_ he thinks as Slade manages a particularly hard hit to his abdomen, _I can’t win if I don’t focus_.

Dick flips onto Slade’s shoulders, twisting the older man to the side as his feet collide with the mercenary’s back. He kicks off, hands releasing Slade to handspring back a bit when Slade stumbles.

He doesn’t let up his assault, springing forward to land a vicious uppercut to Slade’s jaw that’s followed by a sweep to the man’s legs.

Deathstroke falls and Dick is quick to straddle his waist and place him in an Ezekiel choke hold.

“I win.”

_Finally._

He offers the mercenary a hand up, and Slade grips his forearm tightly, an odd expression upon his face _(for someone whose ass he’d just kicked)_.

Slade’s smile is genuine, all signs of bloodlust leaving his expression.

“That you did Apprentice. That you did.”

He sounds proud, in a way Bruce never had.

It makes Dick swallow hard, blinking rapidly as Slade grips his shoulder.

** _He is better._ **

_*_

“Are you sure you want to go back?”

Slade asks, casually leaning against the doorframe as he watches Dick pack the few things he’d brought.

“You know you’re welcome here. You may have completed training, but there’s always more to learn.”

Dick smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I appreciate the offer Slade, but I can’t accept. I’ve been away from the family long enough.”

Something he’d feel guilty for, if he and Bruce hadn’t had that spat.

Or if Damian hadn’t (unknowingly) ditched him the second Bruce returned.

Or if Tim hadn’t _completely _blown him off at every opportunity…

Slade snorts, eyes falling on the single photo Dick had brought- a shot of Bruce’s birthday party, before he’d ‘died’. The entire family gathered, minus Jason, all smiling within the frame. Simpler times.

_Happier _times.

“Wayne? His hoard of adopted children? Kid, they’re not your family. They’re a chemical mixture waiting to explode.”

There’s truth in Slade’s words, Dick knows that.

It’s not like Bruce was a picture-perfect father, or that any of his siblings would call each other family.

But they were _his_.

His family, team, whatever.

He belongs with _them, _to _them _(_<strike>even if they don’t care to belong to him</strike>_).

Even if it hurts,

_Especially _when it hurts.

Dick hitches the bag on his shoulder, smile wavering slightly.

“Maybe. But I love them. They’re all I have.”

_They’re more than he deserves._

“They don’t deserve you, Blue bird. You’re meant for greater things than slumming it in that dumpster dive of a city.”

He knows Slade means it as comforting- he’s made his hatred of the rest of the bats _more _than clear over the last few months- but it isn’t.

Slade has it all wrong.

Dick isn’t worthy of _them_.

_He’s poison and pain, unworthy, unloved-_

“It’s where I want to be.”

Slade pushes off the doorframe, handing Dick a small piece of paper inscribed with messily written numbers.

Dick sends him a questioning look.

“it’s the number to my private line. If the bats make you change your mind, offer is always open.”

Dick beams at Slade, launching into the mercenary’s arms for a hug.

“Thank you,” he says, voice slightly muffled in the man’s uniform.

Slade pats his back lightly, tense, before returning the embrace.

“Don’t mention it Grayson. Seriously, _don’t_. I have a reputation to maintain.”

Dick only grins.

*

_Now…_

There’s a steady murmur of chatter over the channel Batman is monitoring.

For some, it’s nerves manifesting in incessant babbling.

For others, it’s vital information exchanged as they get in position.

There’s rumor of a shipment at the docks, some nasty drugs ready to ravage Gotham’s poverty-ridden districts, and the goons are an indication that his source was right.

“Just like old times,” Red Robin says with a grin at his resurrected mentor. “Big time drug busts, just you and me.”

“Think again Replacement.”

Jason, his wayward son, melts out of the shadows to join them, sans Red helmet for once.

Jason’s tense, angry, and it makes Batman question if it’s just _drugs _these goons are trafficking.

“Red Hood,” He acknowledges, inclining his head slightly.

“Not just me, B.”

Batman almost rolls his eyes as other members of his family appear. Damian and Stephanie both huff at his glare whilst Cassandra appears mildly sheepish.

He verbally sighs, rubbing his temple with one hand.

“I thought I told you three to keep watch over Crime Alley.”

Stephanie puts one hand on her hip, the other poking into Batman’s armor roughly.

“Because you told us something was going down in Crime Alley when, _low-and-behold_, you just lied to get us out of the way!”

Damian lets out a small ‘tt’ looking off-put and disappointed, hurt even.

“You’d think you would _trust _us to handle ourselves at this point Father. If you were worried about stealth, I don’t understand why you’d bring _Drake of all people along- _“

Tim stiffens, and Jason whirls on Damian, eyes flaming.

“Shut up Demon Brat! Like you didn’t screw up our stake out last week- “

“Coming from the family’s resident screw up, Todd, that means very little- “

Tim walks towards Damian, face reddening in anger, mouth set in a severe line.

“At least Jason is capable of running a successful operation without _losing his temper like a child_\- “

Stephanie rolls her eyes, pushing herself between the boys as Cassandra watches in dismay.

“Guys, come on- “

“Oh, _please _Fatgirl, please enlighten us with your opinion- “

“ENOUGH!”

Batman roars, shutting everyone up.

They remain silent as he tunes back into the channel, suspiciously quiet.

Batman enhances his cowl’s vision, searching for the guards he’d been listening in on before.

“Shit,” Jason says, following Batman’s gaze to the small stack of bloodied bodies piled at the edge of the docks.

“Looks like someone beat us to the shipment.”

Cassandra hums in agreement, tapping her foot along to a beat Batman can hear faintly through the goon’s channel.

“Do you hear that?”

Stephanie asks, pushing forward as it grows in volume.

“It sounds like music.”

Batman narrows his eyes, examining the shadows for the person who’d cleared the area.

Something felt off, something had _felt _off since Penguin offered up the drug shipment information without so much as a squeak of protest. His gut said someone was behind this, behind Oswald’s cooperation, and he believed that person was still here.

_‘Do you hear that?’_

One goon asks, voice laced with panic.

A few goons venture from their posts, guns clenched tightly as they search for the sound’s source.

_‘It’s getting louder,’ _a different one says. _‘David? What’s the situation out there?’_

Cassandra’s tapping grows more frantic, beat increasing as the noise grows. He sees a few guards approach where the bodies are partially concealed by the shadows, comms nearly vibrating with the bass.

_‘David’s down,’ _a cool voice replies, smooth as silk and familiar in an odd way. _‘Don’t worry, you boys are next. You can send Sionis my regards from jail.’_

The music’s tempo is just as frantic, but the pitch is increasing along with the volume.

_‘Oh shi-‘_

As the first guard collapses, comm sparking, Batman clutches his head, tuning out the channel and ordering Tim to do the same.

Batman leaps down as the next body falls, only to be tackled by a red and black blur.

“Sorry B,” the apparently _not _missing Dick Grayson says with a playful grin, tone bordering on condescending. “Can’t let you ruin the performance.”

Dick flips backwards, sticking the landing on his tippy toes, as Tim offers Batman a hand up.

He takes it, looking at Dick with a frown. Batman’s eyes dart to his neck, noting the small scar there that hadn’t been before, before dragging along his arms. His _bigger _arms, much bigger than they were when he’d…

(_<strike>left? been taken?</strike>_)

…disappeared.

Where the _hell _has he been?

How did he get those scars on his neck?

_Why _does he look like he’s been working out rather than sulking like Batman had anticipated?

The frail wooden docks shake, speakers from the ship letting out the same club-like rhythm Batman had heard over the comms.

Cassandra’s expression hardens, watching Dick carefully as Stephanie and the boys stare at the acrobat in disbelief.

_‘I like to get my FUCKING FADE ON, I’m feeling SEXY I’m like, ooh.’_

Dick tosses his unkept hair back, proudly displaying the blood red bird extending from his chest to his fingertips. There’s blood on his cheeks, fresh blood.

His children gather around him, watching Dick leap back into the amassing crowd of minions here for the drug shipment with a grin.

Tim is the first to speak, yelling over the noise surrounding them.

“IS THAT-?!”

“Grayson?”

The name rolls off Damian’s tongue fondly, soft. So soft Batman has to strain to hear it, the reverence in it, the respect. More respect in one name than his ex-assassin son had ever shown him.

_‘Them haters tryin’ to get their HATE ON but I’m too SEXY I’m like ooh’_

Dick’s kicks are perfectly tuned with the beat, supporting Batman’s theory that this was an elaborately orchestrated meet up.

But why?

And why have Penguin play messenger?

Jason lets out a loud wolf-whistle, cutting off Tim’s question.

“It’s ‘wing! I’d know that ass anywhere!”

Stephanie makes a noise of agreement, arm thrown around Cassandra’s shoulders.

Tim and Cassandra are both silent, watching Dick move.

Whatever his adoptive daughter sees, she doesn’t like.

_‘I’m like… I’m like… I’m like… Like a war child!’ _

Dick winks at Jason, flipping over the shoulders of another goon to fly right into another. Jason’s resounding grin is brighter than the setting sun on the horizon, wide and blinding.

Damian lets out another ‘tt’ but Batman can see the small smile on his son’s face as he watches his brother work through the mass.

A small smile he can’t recall ever seeing once Dick went missing, when it was _Bruce _raising him instead of Dick.

Just like he can’t recall seeing Jason grin like that once Bruce came back to Batman and Gotham, sending Nightwing off to Bludhaven.

Something in his chest feels tight, _angry_.

_‘I’m like… I’m like… I’m like… Like a war child!’_

Dick’s grin is feral, and there’s a lethality and precision to his movements that hadn’t been there before.

He moves different too, less reliant on his fancy flips.

But he’s still too showy.

_ ‘I’m like… I’m like… I’m like… Like a war child!’_

It’s clear Dick was training, wherever he was for the last seven months.

He’s bigger, more muscle and strength and scars (_something he’d noticed when Dick first appeared, but something that is still jarring, unnerving_).

It makes Batman pause.

_ ‘I’m like… I’m like… I’m like… Like a war child!’_

Reinforcements swarm, being knocked down almost faster than they appear.

Dick’s takedowns are vicious, and he’s fighting with a staff instead of sticks.

Precise.

Lethal.

Perfectly Timed.

As the song’s beat rises, Dick does a full turn midair, extending his baton to land a brutal hit to a goon’s jaw.

Dick lands as the beat drops.

_‘Fuckin’ war child!’_

“Deathstroke.” Batman breathes out, recognizing the move as one of Slade’s.

Dick meets his eyes, reading the name of his lips, and grins mockingly.

‘_World’s Greatest Detective, huh?_’

By the time Dick is finished, the ground is painted the same shade of red as his symbol, blood spilling between the cracks of wood into the water.

There’s red on his ex-partner’s cheek too, but Dick doesn’t seem to care.

“So, Bruce,” Dick starts, casually leaning on his staff (_as red as his suit, but not from painted fabric_). “How does it feel to be the only Batman again?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thoughts?


	3. voices won't go away (they say some awful things)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Where were you?” and Bruce phrases it like a question, like Dick can choose not to answer, but they both know it’s a command, an order. It’s such a Bruce thing to do, and it only serves to piss him off.
> 
> “What,” he taunts, smirk gracing his lips as he clutches Damian just a bit tighter, “World’s Greatest Detective doesn’t know?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, dropping an update at around midnight months after I meant to: 'SUP FUCKERS!  
You, reading this borderline crack chapter that does not include the big blowup yet: Why did it take so long?  
Me: FUCK YOU THAT'S WHY!
> 
> In a less dramatic and meme-y fashion, whoops. I meant to finish this forever ago but college and the real world decided suffering was needed, so this hit the backburner. My eagle-eyed readers will notice that I added another chapter to the original three, and all I can say is: this fic has a consciousness that wants all my energy.  
The next installation of the over all series is 90% done, and I might post that before I finish the HOPEFULLY final chapter of How Could He.
> 
> Many (and by many I mean ALL) thanks to my beta/wifey dbakeiro, who picked up where my other beta left off and made this post possible before February! Also thanks to my other beta, Gayperry, who helped me correct and work out some of the earlier versions of the drafts!!! Couldn't do it without them!!!
> 
> Other news:  
You guys all know I See Things That Nobody Else Sees (And It's Slowly Killing Me), right? Well, it got an amazing mood board within the story, so check that out! It is ALSO getting a sequel called If I'm So Special, Why Am I a Secret? (Don't Call Me Crazy) which is set in the same universe, but from Harley Quinn's perspective! Remember that vague throwaway line about 'hope in Harley Quinn's eyes' and Bruce 'sleeping with a thief and a murderer on separate nights'? I barely did, but the fic is a WIP and 45% complete! Here's an excerpt:
> 
> Even when her relationship with Joker had gone up in flames (or a literal rocket, that he’d strapped her to, she supposes it’s one way of breaking up) she was grateful for that death, that loss of pathetic naivety and perfectionism.  
After all, if she hadn’t become Harley Quinn, she’d have never met Bruce (even if it hurt in ways both known and unknown to her).
> 
> -There is a few new fics in work, and they will be released spontaneously throughout February, and my posted WIPs will ALL be receiving updates in February too!
> 
> And because everyone reading this far is awesome, here's an excerpt from How Could It Be, the next fic in Death Is But An Illusion!
> 
> “You think this is a joke? That your precious League or heroes will save you?” Superwoman’s smile had been mocking, indulgent, as she tightened her lasso around Nightwing’s throat. “On your feet, cutie pie.”  
Jason hadn’t heard the rest of her speech, hadn’t heard anything outside of Dick’s labored breaths, couldn’t see past the blood spilling past his lips. But even that slowed, the world falling silent for a moment, all of Gotham seeming to hold its breath…
> 
> “…Dick Grayson.”
> 
> And then the world explodes in technicolored chaos.
> 
> -and finally, bc I forgot to do this when I first posted this, shoutouts to everyone who kudoed, commented, bookmarked, or even viewed it! You don't know how much it means to me that my words actually make people happy, that even for a minute something I write makes someone's life just a little better, maybe a little more bearable. I've said it before and I'll say it now: fanfiction is meant to be an escape, and it's saved my life.  
On a less sappy/sad note, special shout out to two of my favorite bookmarks on this story:
> 
> -simply ollie: "Why is this one of the greatest fics I've ever read?" literally made me cry, so thx for that!  
-60sec400: "Aw man this is good. This is very good. Normally I'm a sucker for Bruce and Dick having a father son relationship. But sometimes swinging the other way where Bruce fucking sucks is also a thing I like to read apparently. And this is the best." made me laugh like the Joker and get a bit teary eyed!!!!
> 
> I love you guys, each and every one of you!

_“So, Bruce,” Dick starts, casually leaning on his staff (as red as his suit, but not from painted fabric). “How does it feel to be the only Batman again?”_

He can feel the blood on his hands, on his face. It’s like a burn, like a caress - calming, reaffirming.

Tangible proof of his training, like his scars, and of time spent away.

‘_I’ve changed!’ _He wants to scream, to grab Bruce by the shoulders and shake him until he sees it, sees Dick. ‘_I’m better, stronger…’_

<strike>(_‘Now you can stop resenting me. You can love me, like you used to.._.’)</strike>

He knows Cass sees. He’s certain she’d known who had trained him even before Bruce could pick up on it.

(‘_Familiar,’_ she’d signed to him so long ago, pressing a gentle palm against his heart, ‘_Same._’ They’d always been able to read each other, and with his new training they’re even more similar)

Dick doesn’t look at any of them. Not Steph, nor Cass. Not Tim or Jay. Not even Dami. His eyes are solely on Bruce. Questioning him, challenging him, it’s all part of his performance, part of his plans.

‘_What are you thinking? What are you feeling?’_

It’s been so long since he was able to read Bruce with confidence, or at all. The openness and trust that had flourished between them had disappeared when Bruce had, lost to time, and unlike his ex-Partner, their bond never returned.

‘_Are you happy? Did you miss me? Did anyone? Did any of you even notice I was gone?’_

He wonders what the others know, in that moment, what they see between him and Bruce. He wonders if they feel the tension, tightly wound and coiled like a spring. He wonders if they know why he left, if Bruce told them.

‘_How does it feel, B, to have everything I worked for and fought for? How does it feel to be loved, to be wanted? How does it feel to fire me again, to shut me out again?’_

Their relationship has always been a push-and-pull, with Dick pulling Bruce closer and Bruce pushing him away. It’s always been him giving and giving and Bruce taking and taking. Dick’s _tired_, so so tired, and it crashes into him in waves, resonating through his body.

Bruce’s jaw is clenched, tight in a way that makes Dick feel like a child about to be scolded, like a soldier about to be reprimanded…

_And he’s as reactive as always, arms crossing over his chest defensively, eyes narrowed and challenging (defiant)._

_Because he’s not Bruce’s child,_

_And he sure as hell isn’t his soldier_.

…but he refuses to let his smile waver.

Bruce’s mouth opens, as if to speak, but Dick’s attention is drawn to the small boy beside him.

“Grayson?”

The white of Dami’s mask widen, awed, but Dick can see the anger slowly building.

It’s in the crinkle of his mask,

The slight hunch of his shoulders.

Dick winces, preparing himself for the blow he can see in Dami’s clenched fists…

But it never comes.

Damian barrels into him with the force a small elephant (_which, thanks to Zitka, he can say with certainty_) and nearly knocks him over, his blood-coated staff falling to the ground with a loud ‘_clang!’_.

He looks down as much as he can with Damian’s arms tightly wrapped around his neck, to see Dami burrowing himself into Dick’s chest. Damian’s _bigger_ but he’s still so _small_, small enough that Dick feels like an idiot for ever leaving him.

Small enough that Dick doesn’t want to let him go (_not now, not **ever**_), feeling his feet dangle off the floor as he surrounds Damian with a hug, feeling tiny fists clench the paper-thin material of his suit.

Damian lifts his head from Dick’s chest, breaths tickling Dick’s ear 

“_If you pull another stunt like that I will-” _

Dick laughs, a joyous sound echoing through the air.

Laughing isn’t something he’s felt like doing in so long, even before he’d left with Slade. Laughter had been far and few in between even with Damian, secure in the Penthouse and their own little world. It felt like a lifetime ago that he’d been Damian’s guardian.

“I won’t, I promise baby bat. After all, I wouldn’t want my Little D to worry, would I?”

Damian lets out a ‘_tt’_, annoyed, but doesn’t leave his arms, and it makes Dick want to _coo_ because it’s _adorable_ and _oh god he’d missed Damian so fucking much_.

Dick can see Bruce’s scowl from over Damian’s head.

“Where were you?” and Bruce phrases it like a question, like Dick can choose not to answer, but they both know it’s a command, an order. It’s such a Bruce thing to do, and it only serves to piss him off.

“What,” he taunts, smirk gracing his lips as he clutches Damian just a _bit_ tighter, “World’s Greatest Detective doesn’t know?”

But he does, doesn’t he? Bruce knew it, he just wanted him to _say it_, to confirm his suspicions and allow him room to _revel_ in it.

He watches Tim’s brow furrow trying to read in between the lines he knows are there, glancing between him and Damian and Bruce. Cass’s eyes are still cold, so much colder than the last time he’d seen her (_but he understands, to some degree, knows she hates Slade the same she hates any reminder of her past, of her kills, and it puts a tiny seed of guilt in his gut_). Stephanie doesn’t give off any particular emotion, and Jason’s eyes are as puzzling as always.

“Seven months ago, you disappeared. The biometric implants containing a tracking device went offline within twenty-four hours of your disappearance, and no one has seen you since. I know you were with Slade Wilson, so I’ll ask you _one_ more time.”

Bruce takes a step forward, like a threat and a promise, and Dick can feel the long-healed bruises burn (_but he won’t stand down, not again, not when he knows what standing down means. He refuses to be afraid of Batman_).

“_Where_ were you?”

Dick glares back, subtly putting himself between Bruce and Damian. He knows Bruce’s anger more than he knows his restraint, and while he knew his brothers are in no danger from Batman, accidents happen (_like the broken ribs and fractured collarbones he’d had to explain to Leslie knowing he couldn’t lie to Alfred, like the batarang scars on his back_ _and the one on Jason’s neck… Accidents_.)

“I think you know,” he says, watching as Bruce’s muscles clench, as his right foot twitches the way it always did when he attacks. “I was where I was wanted.”

Tim’s face speaks of confusion, but Cass’s eyes soften slightly. She knows what he was referring to all too well. Damian’s arms only tighten around his neck, a painful squeeze but not overly so, a silent support.

“Wait,” Stephanie makes a time-out motion with her hands, stepping forward from Cass’s side to look at them both. “Not all of us here are genius detectives,” she looks around at the stony faces surrounding her. “Okay, _I _am not a genius detective so what the hell is this _who_ we are discussing and what are these lines I’m seein’ but not readin’?”

“Stroke of Death,” Cass says, and Dick can’t place the emotion in her voice, “Slade Wilson.”

Damian pulls away slightly, and he can hear Jason’s scoffs in the background.

“Is it true?” Bruce demands (_and his fist is clenched around the batarang, poised, ready to spring like the rest of him, and Dick has marks from that very weapon in the few times he couldn’t dodge_)

“Yes.”

His family erupts into chaos.

A “_What were you thinking, or did you even think at all?!”_ from Tim, which was _rich_ considering how he’d ran off at the slightest hint that Bruce _could be_ alive, had lived with assassins and been trained and groomed to be _Ra’s Al Ghul_ without a word or thought to those he’d left behind (and _yes_, Dick is still bitter, damnit).

A “_That…makes sense, actually._” From Stephanie, which he wasn’t sure how to react to. What did that _mean_, exactly? It made sense? _How_? It hadn’t made sense to him until he’d been forced to swallow the bitter pill of his importance to his family, his _true_ role, and his faults and failings.

Jason’s face is somewhere between anger and disappointment, and the latter makes his heart stop (_he hates disappointing people, always has, but after everything that happened even before Bruce’s death, after the Joker and Blockbuster and Tarantula…he can’t stand it, can’t accept it_).

Even amongst the chaos, Damian’s voice rings clear:

“Are you fucking Wilson? Is _that _why you left without a word? For _months_?”

Damian interjects, eyes fiery.

Dick freezes, staring at the little brother cuddled in his arms with wide eyes.

“What…” his mouth feels dry, devoid of words, and it’s not even the language that bothers him (he’s heard Damian say a _lot_ worse than one f-bomb) it’s the… _eww._ “…the _hell_ makes you think I’m sleeping with _Slade Wilson of all people_?! He’s like twice my age! He’s older than my _father_ would be!”

Jason cocks an eyebrow at him, eyes darting between Dick and Bruce, mouth curved into a shit-eating grin (_and Dick knows what’s coming out of his mouth before he says it_).

“Daddy issues maybe?”

He has to hold Damian tight to his chest, smothering him with the fabric of his suit before he gets the chance to creatively curse Jason out (_because Jason was also a child, and Dick didn’t feel like breaking up a fight tonight when they inevitably came to blows_). He tries to convey his disapproval to Jason in a stern look, but Jason's entirely too smug for it to have any effect.

“Ouch!”

Jason glares at Cass, rubbing the back of his head where she’d hit.

“Behave,” is all she says, and Tim and Steph give good impressions of blowfish as they try to reign in their laughter.

Bruce looks past the rest of the family to meet Dick’s eyes, and he’s still angry (_nothing’s changed_).

“Did you investigate the entirety of the docks?”

Dick nods, slipping into his ‘_mission report_’ voice without noticing.

“Basic amphetamines with traces of heavier drugs. Packaging suggests they were trying to appeal to a younger crowd, bastards.”

He doesn’t miss the way Jason’s fist tightens around his holstered gun.

“Victims? Other merchandise?”

“’Bout fifty girls ages twelve to sixteen on board, they’re secured.”

Bruce nods, almost approving, and Dick _hates_ the rush of pleasure he gets from it.

“We need to obtain a chemical sample for evaluation, make sure it’s not a new threat trying to establish themselves in Gotham.”

Stephanie snorts.

“I’ve always thought Gotham needed more crazies. You know what I always notice is missing from the mall? More drug dealers.”

Tim hides a grin behind his glove.

“I’ve got the victims,” Jason says, an edge to his voice (_cause he’d grown up on the streets, seen girls thrown away and sold like they were nothing, and Dick knows from Jason’s fear toxin episodes that he’d had more experience than desired with trafficking_).

“I’ll get the drugs,” he says, running his hand up and down Damian’s back.

Batman’s eyes are calculating, weighing the pros and cons of the decision. They flicker back down from Damian, content in Dick’s arms, to Dick.

(_Dick can still see the anger and jealousy burning behind his cowl, the disappointment, like always, and he knows his absence changed nothing_)

“Robin, Spoiler, Black Bat, and Red Robin you’re with me in the Batmobile. Red Hood, you and Nightwing can make sure the docks are clear and dispose of the drugs before reporting back to base.”

“We literally _just _said that,” Jason mutters, glancing at Dick through his lashes. He tries to shoot Jason a smile, but it falls flat.

Dick presses a kiss to Damian’s forehead, featherlight, and releases him with a hair ruffle.

Damian is silent, allowing the affection, before turning towards Bruce.

“Yes, Father.” his little D says, emotionless and monotone (_just like when he’d first come to Gotham_).

Dick can’t help but wonder if leaving Damian with Bruce was the right call.

Dick can’t help but feel that things had been better when Bruce was dead.

“C’mon Big Bird,” Jason says, clapping his shoulder roughly, “Time to get to work.”

Dick is helpless but to follow, something cold and heavy settling in his stomach (_something that feels all too close to dread_).

*

“So, Slade Wilson huh?”

Jason’s elbow is propped on the gargoyle next to him, eyes determinedly staring at the street beneath them.

Dick sighs, watching his feet dangle off the building. Drug disposal had taken less than half an hour, but the authorities had yet to arrive and take the girls somewhere better. He supposes he’s lucky Jason only kicked the unconscious traffickers Dick had _apprehended _(_read: unapologetically beat the shit out of, whoops_), since not eight months ago Jason would’ve shot them all in the head and Dick in the ass just for the hell of it (_“It’d be a real shame to ruin your best feature, Dickhead.” He’d say. Not that it had stopped him from trying_).

He tries to remember Jason’s attempt at a conversation opener, tapping his fingers on his staff lightly.

“I thought Bruce would be the judgmental one, not _you_.”

Jason raises his hands in surrender, lips slightly upturned.

“Not judging, just asking. Not like we all haven’t been trained by assassins and killers at some point in our lives.”

“True.”

Dick falls silent, and Jason looks at him with eyes full of _something_. Dick doesn’t have a name for it, he just knows it isn’t hatred (_<strike>which is all he deserves from Jason</strike>_)

(_and he wonders again why Bruce was able to bring Jason back into himself when Dick failed <strike>but then he remembers that it’s Bruce who has always cleaned up his failures, the latest being Tim and Jason</strike>_)<strike></strike>

After a beat, he realizes Jason is waiting for him to talk.

“Slade made me an offer, same as before. I accepted.”

Jason lights a cigarette with a grunt, taking a long drag before he looks back at Dick.

“Why? I _know _you Goldie, and you were never interested in Slade’s offers before. What changed? What drove you away from Gotham?”

The _away from Bruce_ is left unsaid, but he can read between the lines.

Dick turns away from Jason, images flickering behind his eyelids –

_He could see the anger in Bruce’s cobalt blues, anger like an inferno, unpredictable and **dangerous…**_

_(but in the circus, he’d played with fire and he’d never been afraid of being burned)_

_It was one of the first things he’d seen in his father-figure, rage behind calculated smiles_

** _Warning signs_ ** _ in a narrowed gaze,_

** _Red flags_ ** _ in the tense of his shoulders…_

_(but red had been one of his favorite colors, so he’d ignored them)_

_So many small moments adding up to a picture-perfect puzzle riddled with cracks,_

_Things like a slap when he’d spoken against the Superman-manhunt,_

_Things like a backfist to the face when he argued against Batman’s methods,_

_Things like a direct punch when he dared to bring up Jason, dared to grieve_

_(“He doesn’t like being confronted Barry - I’ll handle it.”)_

_So many convenient mind-control episodes where only Dick was hurt,_

_Times where he covered bruises with excuses,_

_Times where he pretended the blood wasn’t his,_

_Times where he saw Bruce’s eyes through the cowl and wondered if **Bruce **was the real mask._

_(Just like that exit blow, the only scrap of affection Bruce gave him as thanks)_

-making sure the tear that leaks down isn’t visible.

“Dick?”

Jason’s voice shakes Dick from his reverie. He plasters a smile on his face and straightens, forcing his clenched fists to relax.

“Nothing drove me away, Little-” he hesitates, reminded of Jason’s angry protests against the nickname, and that anger brings up other memories he’s made himself forget…

(“_Jason’s death wasn’t **my** fault!” and it was the implication in that statement that hurt more than the blow that followed_)

He swallows the rest of it in his throat.

(_too clingy, too affectionate, distance and separation are the only way you can do this_)

“Jason. I just wanted more training.”

Jason stomps on the cigarette, eyes narrowed and stands beside him.

(_Dick just knows Jason can see right through him, heard the split-second hesitation_)

“Then why-”

“Why not?” he interjects, and his smile _hurts_, tearing across his face like a big, ugly scar. He doesn’t _want_ to smile, he wants to scream and yell and demand, to ask _why Bruce?_ When he really means _why not me?_ He wants to shake Jason’s shoulders, to make him understand what he feels, how he feels, and why he actually left.

But he won’t. He can’t.

It’s easier for him to lie and pretend, to act and forgive, than it is to face the issues the rest of the Bats would only avoid.

Emotions are the eighth deadly sin, according to Bat-logic, and maybe that was why he’d never been able to fit in.

“Bruce had everything covered here so I wasn’t needed, and Slade offered to train me.”

And Jason squints at him, seeming to pick him apart with his eyes alone, carefully choosing his next words.

“Why would you think you weren’t needed?”

Shit.

_Of course,_ Jason picked up on that tiny slip.

“With the real Batman returned, I figured it’d be best if I got out of his way. Figured some extra training from one of the best couldn’t hurt.”

He shrugs, trying to downplay the entire issue (_because of course his family would only notice things when he didn’t want them to, when it complicated things_) and Jason’s eyes glow slightly compared to the dark backdrop.

“But –”

Dick breathes a sigh of relief as the sound of sirens cuts Jason off, ending the interrogation before Dick could further slip up.

He slaps Jason’s back playfully, grinning in spite of himself. Jason eyes him warily, still studying him carefully. He suppresses a shiver as Jason’s eyes darken, shining with an intensity Dick doesn’t entirely understand.

“Race ya to base!”

He shouts, faux cheer coloring his tone as he launches himself off the skyscraper without hesitation.

Dick can hear Jason’s curses behind him and laughs, anxiety briefly dissipating as he swings.

More_ professionalism, _more_ distance_.

That has to be his new motto.

*

“Y’know _I _did the whole red costume thing before it was cool,” Jason says mournfully as they pull into the cave. Dick feels the words as they form, arms clutched tight around Jason’s abdomen as they ride the motorbike (_Dick’s had gone missing, and Jason wasn’t a complete asshole all the time_). It’s an odd sensation, and Dick pushes it from his mind.

“I was _Robin_ first!”

Jason sniffs.

“You looked like a traffic light. My costume is mainly red and it’s in my fucking name. _Red _Hood came along, now all of a sudden there’s a _Red_ Robin and a _Red _Arrow-”

“Who was also around before you,” Dick mutters.

“-and now you’re, what, Redwing?”

“Of course not. That’s a stupid name, why would anyone call themselves that? Might as well change my name to Wingman well I’m at it.”

“I mean you _did_ name your batarang rip-offs wingdings,” Jason says, and Dick can _hear_ the smug grin in his voice. “Not like you’re known for coming up with good names.”

Dick rolls his eyes.

“Says the man with a dildo-shaped bomb helmet that he calls a _hood_.”

Jason parks the bike, glaring at Dick as they both get off.

“Two words:_Disco-wing_.”

Dick narrows his eyes.

“I looked great in that and you _know it_. I caught your eyes drifting more than once.”

Jason flushes, ears turning a bright shade of pink, before quickly firing back.

“Hard not to look when you’re showing more skin than _Supergirl_, and at least she rocks the crop top and miniskirt combo.”

Dick leans a bit closer, hyperaware of the way Jason’s blush deepens with his proximity.

“Are you saying I _couldn’t_ pull it off?”

Jason’s mouth opens to respond, before-

“**_Richard John Grayson where the HELL have you been_**?!”

Beyond the vehicle bay at the top of the main entrance’s stairs, Barbara Gordon’s wheelchair sits. Her green eyes are ablaze with anger, fiery red hair blowing behind her like a war banner, a flag.

Dick and Jason share a look, wide-eyed and slightly scared.

“Well, you’re fucked,” Jason notes, because he’s helpful like that.

“Shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Any particular WIP updates or story sequels you're excited for?
> 
> (also hahahaha watch Slade, Cass, and Steph become main characters instead of side characters bc I get emotionally attached to everyone I write and have no self control oops)

**Author's Note:**

> Hehehe angst. Let me know your thoughts!


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